


He can't

by hearts_kun



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst, Engine Room, M/M, Masturbation, Necrophilia, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 01:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17193794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearts_kun/pseuds/hearts_kun
Summary: The shutter rises. Akira feels something in him cut loose. He can't stop. Whatever he feels, he has to let it out. Everything he couldn't allow himself to feel when they were both alive.





	He can't

**Author's Note:**

> please, read the tags carefully before reading.  
> this was born from a thought that shuake necrophilic fics never really make akira lead the scene.

The shutter rises, and the only thing they can see — they can’t actually see. They all avert their eyes, wincing, crying, grimacing. One glimpse is enough. Now they know, Goro Akechi is, indeed, a corpse. There’s little left of his head: the helmet is shattered to pieces, brains are spilled across the floor, blood still leaking onto metallic patterns. It must have been an explosive bullet, everyone thinks for a moment, but nobody dwells on it. Whatever it was, cognitive Akechi is also gone, and so are his Shadows, and his gun.

There’s nothing they can do.

Akira’s legs fail him, and he falls to his knees and crawls forth. Ann makes a nauseated noise, and everyone pats her on the shoulders and drags her away from the scene.

“Joker…” they ask quietly, and he nods, and tells them to wait outside. He will soon join them. It’s alright. They believe him, not because they want to, but because they can’t stay here any longer. It’s too bad, too deadly. Too scary.

As soon as the last of them is gone, Akira finally gets closer to Akechi’s body. There’s only half of his face that stayed untouched, and it’s covered in blood and small pieces of flesh splattered over dead unmoving lips.

As Akira moves closer, he feels these lips are not cold yet. It only takes a few moments of a wild rush, driven by uncontrolled pain, until he suddenly finds himself kissing those lips here and there, the corners of the mouth, the middle, soft and squishy, and messy with all the blood. It gets harder and harder not to sob, as he realizes with terror his stupid body is getting a boner because of how calm and wet those dead lips are, and from how he, Akira Kurusu, is so hopeless, pathetic and helpless in front of them now.

Tears burn his face, and the only thing he wants is to hate Goro Akechi as much as he hates himself at this very moment; to be able to stand up and leave now, before he did anything he won’t be able to fix later. But he can’t. He can’t. He just can’t.

He looks at those calm slowly cooling lips, slightly opened, as though Akechi wants to say something; no sound leaves Akechi’s mouth, but Akira can hear these easy, simple sounds lingering in the air, these last words, completely unfitting the scenery:

“Hello.”

“The weather is nice today, isn’t it?”

“I find this rain calming, to be honest.”

“Leblanc really feels like home, the more I think about it.”

Akira whispers these words to himself but hears Akechi. Akechi’s lips don’t move, but he’s talking. That’s how it feels.

Akira is so hard in his pants at this point, so tight that it hurts, physically and mentally. He loses control with every breath he takes, every second he stays in this room, every other glance he drops on these lips smeared with blood and flesh.

Realization barely hits him. Only for a moment he sees Akechi’s gun lying on the ground next to them, and thinks, maybe, the right thing would be to take it and put an end to everything now.

Then he thinks about the Phantom Thieves waiting outside, and knows he has no right to run away like this. They have a world to save. A promise to keep. There’s no way out.

So what does he, a pathetic piece of shit, have left now, pushing the gun farther away, crying and sobbing, painfully hard before the corpse of a person whom he is supposed to hate and detest with every fiber of his being but in fact seems to… love? somehow? Love is such a beautiful word full of thousands of meanings, full of purity and freedom that this feeling brings to those who experience it.

Whatever is the mess in Akira’s head, it doesn’t deserve to be called “love”.

He just lacks vocabulary to describe it, to give it a proper name; just like he lacks everything in his life, being here, on his knees, shaking hands, stiff fingers nervously unbuttoning his pants. There’s barely anything left of him at all, when he caresses himself, circles around, jerks off, hasty movements, up and down, up and down; when his eyes are pinned, fixated on those lips slowly growing inevitably blue as the corpse is getting colder; when the words spins around him, spinning, blurring, disintegrating, fading into this deafening void of guilt and pleasure that he never, never ever wanted to experience.

He comes on Akechi’s hips, and the white spots on the dark striped outfit look ridiculously bright. His head is a black hole. There’s nothing but a headache that meets him when he tries to think about what the thieves will say when they see this; when he tries to think about how he will go on living after having done this. He blindly takes Akechi’s hand instead (it’s already cold) and squeezes it, as if trying to get a response, as if Akechi is alive, as if he could be alive (because, yes, his brains are spilled on the floor, but there’s still soul, right? cognition, right? memories, right?), but a response is not there.

It hits him like a thick needle hammered under a nail. He leans over Akechi one last time, looking at this perfect, messy but untouched part of his face, and caresses it so slowly, so gently, and leans in, kissing it goodbye. The kiss is so wet and helpless, he feels pathetic when they break it. Emptiness lingers on his tongue, and an upcoming sob burns his lungs.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before he can’t cry anymore, too dry inside and outside to feel something or to express this feeling. Then the Phantom Thieves come to pick him up. He knows he never buttoned his pants back up, but they don’t comment on it, and they don’t blame him. Missing the ability to talk, he feels grateful.


End file.
